


(All These Little) Things

by agenthill



Series: And, In Sign of Ancient Love, Their Plighted Hands They Join [16]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Jewish Character, Slice of Life, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-11
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-08-21 19:46:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8258273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agenthill/pseuds/agenthill
Summary: Between missions and crises, Angela and Fareeha take time to breathe, and to be, just as they are.Or,The little things that make up Angela and Fareeha's day-to-day life.





	1. 26/9/2016

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hinterlands](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hinterlands/gifts).



> These all come from various tumblr asks, and their chapter titles are the day upon which they were originally posted.
> 
> This was: [More trans!Mercy?](http://agenthill.tumblr.com/post/150956237676/more-transmercy)

Night falls swiftly in Colorado; there is no dusk, no protracted twilight, just seventeen minutes of sunset separating piercingly bright sun and near-total darkness.  In those seventeen minutes, however, the sky seems to burn, brilliant oranges and pinks the likes of which she has never seen, back home in Switzerland.  Everything is brighter, and sharper here.

It was to see this sunset that McCree brought her to the rooftop of Watchpoint: Grand Mesa; the rest of the strike team is not present, out having a celebratory post-mission drink, while she and McCree—not old enough, yet, to drink in America—are left on base.  They have nothing better to do than watch the too-vivid sunset and reflect, as teenagers just on the cusp of entering adulthood do, on their past, and how it will extend to their future.

Here, the total clarity of the sunset in contrast with the haze of the final days of youth, is the first time she says it, the first time she gives name to herself, and in doing so, crystallizes her future.

“Angela,” says she, the name jolting out of her before she has time to consider the weight of it, the implications.  Apropos of nothing, it is said with the urgency of a confession.

For a moment, there is silence between them.  By her side, Jesse is considering, and she imagines he is turning the name over in his mind, taking measure of it before he replies.

As it turns out, he is not.

“Unkle-uh?” he asks, sounding somewhat bewildered.

“ _Angela,_ ” she corrects, “A-N-G-E-L-A.”

“Oh, _Angela._ ”

“No, An-gel-a,” she says it slower this time, hoping he will catch the pronunciation.  It would be unfair of her to expect him to get it right the first time—she still struggles with “Jesse,” always softening her “j”—but she hopes he will hear the difference soon.  She had no expectations for this conversation, but somehow this seems too mundane an exchange to follow what seems, in her teenage mind, to have been a great confession, one which ought to have changed things.

“Right,” says McCree, like he does not believe her, “That’s what I said.  Angela.”

“It is not,” she argues.

“It is!” he sounds almost indignant, as if it was _his_ name they were mispronouncing.  Before she can fight back, he asks, “Why are we even arguing about how to say this damn name anyway?”

For a moment, she wonders how best to say this.  Directly would be best, she knows, would minimize the chance of a misunderstanding, would prevent this conversation from being drawn out any longer than it has been already, but she _cannot_ be direct.  She has tried to do so, before, has tried to say the words, simple as they are, not only to Jesse, but to Ana, to Jack, to Gabriel.  When she tries, she freezes up, is left with her mouth open and no words forthcoming.  (Thus far, she has passed such off as having forgotten an English term, has used her supposed ignorance to smooth over the gaps in dialogue where a confession might have gone.  Such is unsustainable.)  So, she cannot be direct.

Humor.  Jesse appreciates humor, if little else, and is quite a bit more clever than he acts.  Even if she passes it off as a joke, he will understand her meaning.

“Well,” says she, “You are always complaining about having to say my full title.  I thought, ‘If Doctor Ziegler is too hard for him, I will give him something easier.’”

This time, when silence stretches between them, she knows that Jesse really is considering, is mulling over in his mind the implications of her words.

“Angela?” he asks, and this time, it almost sounds right.  “That’s your name?”  He does not sound disbelieving, or even confused.  This is, it seems, just for clarification.

“Yes,” Angela confirms, “That is me.”

“Alright then, Angela,” Jesse says, and Angela feels, suddenly, warmth bloom in her chest, feels for the first time what it is to be truly accepted as she is.  It is beautiful, is everything she thought it would be, and more, is like everything is slotting into place, all at once.

McCree promptly ruins the moment.

“Now wait just a minute,” her heart stops when he says it.  After all of this, will he yet reject her?  “You’re tellin’ me your name’s Angela, and you’re planning to wear a damn _angel_ costume in the field?  A bit heavy-handed, don’t you think?”

Oh.

Well that… is unexpected, and, at the same time, utterly typical of Jesse.

“What is it you have said to me of glass homes?” Angela asks.

“Glass _houses,_ Angela.  Those who live in glass _houses_ shouldn’t throw stones.”

“Precisely that,” Angela says.  “A man named after Jesse James who dresses as a cowboy ought not criticize a woman named Angela for dressing like an angel.  Besides which, it is a _Valkyrie_ Swift Response Suit _._ ”

“You have a fair point,” he admits, “But I didn’t _pick_ Jesse.”

Nothing in the way McCree speaks to her is any different than it was before, _Angela_ seems no different to him than _Dr. Ziegler_ was, and so they bicker, as the last fires of sunset fade, and day gives way to night.

* * *

“Angela?” Fareeha asks one night, in the many months after Angela’s confession, “Which came first: the name or the suit?”

“The suit,” she replies, not even looking up from the journal she is reading.

“Do you regret it?” asks Fareeha, “I mean, you made the decision when you were young.  I remember I was still living with my mother the first time I heard her call you by your name, so it must’ve been 15, 20 years ago now?”

“Do you mean to ask if I regret naming myself to match the Valkyrie, and the image I was to present to the public, by extension, or if I regret the associations I have with the name, having done so?” she sets down the journal, and turns to face her girlfriend, who is lying next to her on the bed.  This is a conversation best had face to face.  “Never matter; the answer to your question is yes, to both.  It was a decision I made at seventeen, of course I’ve regretted it.”

“Ah,” says Fareeha, sounding as if she has some regrets, herself—namely, having asked the question.

Before Fareeha can apologize, Angela continues, “It isn’t as simple as that, though.  There are bad memories associated with it, of course, good memories soured by relationships lost to time, but that’s not what about having named myself Angela I regret.  It’s this: when I chose the name, I existed within a total institution.  Overwatch controlled every aspect of my life; I ate what I was told, slept when I was told, went where I was told.  Back then, living in an environment like that, as young as I was, I couldn’t imagine a life beyond Overwatch, couldn’t imagine myself outside of the context of the work I did for them.  So yes, I regret that I named myself in such a way that I further tied myself to the organization.”

(When Overwatch fell, and she wanted to move on, to find her place outside of it, for the first time since she was a child, it was made all the harder by having a name which evoked, in the minds of all who saw her, what she was with them.  It was not a tether to her past, but an anchor pulling her down, down, down, leaving her to drown beneath the weight of a legacy she no longer wanted.  It branded her as an angel, perfect, untouchable, otherworldly, the way she had been asked to present herself before the media, and not the way she was: flawed, hurting, human.  Then, her name was a curse.)

“However,” she continues, before Fareeha can get the wrong idea, “I don’t regret the connection entirely.  There are good memories tied to the name, too.”

(She and Jesse, back when Blackwatch was only an idea, and not a source of conflict between them, watching the sunset and cracking jokes.  Reyes ordering her that she was no longer to bunk with that damned ingrate, McCree, because she belonged in the women’s barracks—the first time her gender was recognized institutionally.  Reinhardt, being the first person to call her beautiful, and to mean it, one evening on base.)

“It’s even more complicated, now, I think, with the Recall.  It’s more difficult to say where who I was ends and who I am begins.  I want people to see me, and to see _Angela_ , because that is who I am, is a part of me, but I’m afraid that to many, Angela is inseparable from _Mercy._ Does that make sense?”

Fareeha nods, and Angela wonders if she feels the same way about having chosen for herself the callsign _Pharah,_ after her childhood nickname, in honor of a mother she thought dead at the time, but who is, in fact, very much alive.  If that is the case, then the final part of her explanation will be easier for it.

“However, all associations with the name aside, I don’t regret having chosen the name itself.”

Fareeha raises an eyebrow at her.

“I don’t,” says she, repetition a reaffirmation of that which she knows to be true, “Because the Valkyrie isn’t the only reason I picked the name.  Partially, I picked it because of my mother.”

“I thought your mother’s name was Anke?”

“It was,” says Angela, feeling surprised, pleasantly, that Fareeha remembers this, “But that’s just it.  When my mother named me, she named me after a grandfather of mine, recently deceased, with a Hebrew name, like her own, as is customary—but she changed the name, slightly, so make it sound more modern, less dated.  A connection to our past, without living in it.  If you listen, you can hear it.   _Anke_ , _Angela._  Similar enough, ja?”

“Anke,” Fareeha says, slowly, rolling the name around her mouth and seeming to consider.  “I can hear it, I suppose, but it’s clearer when you say it.”

“Just so,” Angela agrees, “But that isn’t the point, not really.  In naming a child for a relative, there’s a belief that you create a connection, between the souls of the two.  In some way, the child is connected to the person for whom they are named, is close to them, although they never have met.  It was a way of giving myself a bond with my mother, which her death took from me, a way of feeling close.  Moreover, it is believed that the good deeds of the living reflect well upon the person for whom they are named and I wanted—no, I _want—_ to honor my mother, insofar as I can.”

“That I can understand,” says Fareeha, “The need to preserve a legacy, to keep your mother around, just a little longer.  I felt much the same with my own mother, when I thought she had died.”

Angela wonders at use of the past tense—she does not believe, for a moment, that Fareeha’s actions are no longer defined by a reaction to her mother’s legacy, a need to uphold it, to exceed it, to defy it, and in doing so, honor it.  Angela wonders, but does not question.  They have had enough questions, for one night.

Or, near enough.  It seems, Fareeha has one more.

“When we have children, will you want to name them that way?”

“No,” says Angela immediately, “I don’t think I will.  Already, any child of ours will be viewed as an extension of us, as a legacy, you _know_ this.  I would not bequeath them with another.”

So focused, is she, on the potential fate of their hypothetical child, that she nearly misses it.   _When,_ and not _if._

 _When_ they have a child.

 _When,_ said so easily, as if to Fareeha it is a foregone conclusion, as if she knows that they will last, that nothing will befall them, that in a few years’ time, they will still be together, and will be living in a world stable enough to bring a child into.

 _When_ she and Fareeha have a child, Angela thinks to herself, for the first time, she will try to ensure that they name they chose for them does not weigh them down with a legacy too heavy for any soul to carry.   _When_ they have a child, they will be allowed to make a name for themself—or choose one—without fear of judgement.

 _When_ they have a child, and not if.


	2. 26/9/2016

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another fic about mercy being trans, this time with 10000% more Reinhardt, and a wedding.
> 
> In response to this [ask](http://agenthill.tumblr.com/post/150996690941/banging-on-table-trans-mercy-trans-mercy-trans).

For a supposedly intelligent, well educated person, Angela is suddenly realizing how little she truly knows about some things. Things, in this case, being evening wear, specifically dresses. She is young, scarcely past her nineteenth birthday, and she is, along with other senior members of Overwatch, to attend a soiree—one which, naturally, requires that she be in formal dress.

Normally, this would not be a problem. Angela has been to many formal events before, for awards, for grants, for Overwatch, and for all of them she has, more or less, worn the same thing. A tuxedo, a suit, her dress uniform, all simple enough. Tonight, however, she is to be wearing a dress, and while she _wants_ to, very much so, she is frightened at the prospect.

(When Commander Reyes had suggested it, asking casually what she intended on wearing, she had been confused. A tuxedo, same as ever. Perhaps hers would need a few alterations, now that she was 18 months into HRT, but it would do the job, well enough—or all that she wished she was curvier, she still had yet to see much in the way of change to her silhouette. She had said as much, and he had been surprised. _Not a dress?_ he had asked her, gesturing to the skirt she was wearing at the time. _Nein,_ she had replied, _I would not know where to start._ )

Now, standing in her dress for the evening, Angela is not sure that she knows any more than she had about dresses before she came out. _Tulle, empire waist_ , fabric _ruched_ or _unruched_? None of it has any particular meaning to her. She wants to know, wants to understand what it was that was meant when the shopkeepers she had seen asked her questions, but she had not had time to study up beforehand, and is afraid to ask, even now. Even Ana, who much prefers smart tailored suits to dresses, knows more than she does. How is it that every other woman seems to have this knowledge? How can she access it, without her questions revealing how very little she knows? Having to asks things like this, things she thinks that other women know, never fails to make her feel ashamed, and worse, inauthentic. If she were not as she is, if she were cis, she thinks she might know this. By asking, she feels she is admitting that she is lesser, in some way.

So she does not ask, merely stumbles her way through. The result is not ugly, is a dress which was, hanging up, beautiful, but is perhaps not the best for her. Structured to draw focus to wide hips and a narrow waist, it does little for her still-slim figure. Looking in the mirror, she feels very much like a child playing dress-up in her mother’s clothing, feels like she did, as a very young girl, slipping her mother’s too-large shoes on her feet. It is humiliating.

She does not cry, looking at herself, does not flinch back to see herself reflected back as she is, but she wants to, wants to recoil from what she is, and how she looks. She feels sick, and it is only through the sheer willpower she developed in medical school that she keeps her composure. If she cries, she will ruin her makeup, and that is the only part of her that does look good, right now. If she is sick, the dress, which is not at fault in all of this, will be ruined by kneeling. If she flinches, she will be admitting defeat. She will not back down, will not run from herself, not any longer.

This is who she is, this is what she looks like, and maybe she does not look more at home in a dress than a suit _yet,_ but she never will if she never tries to make the adjustment. Commander Morrison told her that she would never be confident on the battlefield if she never tried to stand her ground, and the same applies here, she imagines. If she does not give herself time to acclimate, she will never feel comfortable like this. All she needs is time.

If only she had realized that before now, when she is expected to be in public. If only she had practiced this beforehand, had grown used to seeing her reflection, to wearing a dress before _tonight._

At the door to her quarters, a knock. She is late, she is sure, is holding everyone up by wasting time staring at herself, but she cannot quite look away, not yet. She will not look away until she can see something beautiful in her reflection, until she can look herself in the eye, dressed as she is, until she can believe that that she looks good like this, because if she does not believe it, who will?

“Angela, Engelchen?” Reinhardt’s voice through the door, “Is everything alright? We need to leave soon.”

_Ja,_ she thinks to say, _alles gut._ Instead, what she says is “Nein,” and not with any confidence, but tremulously, her voice betraying her, in more ways than one as it comes out deeper than she intends.

“I’m coming in,” Reinhardt announces, and she wants to protest, wants to stop him from seeing her like this, on the verge of tears in a too-large dress, trapped by her own reflection, but she cannot speak again, cannot bear to hear how deep her voice sounds right now, thickened by emotion.

In the absence of a protest, Reinhardt enters, and sees her.

“Oh, Angela,” says he, voice full of an emotion she cannot quite place, his eyes welling up with tears. _Sympathy?_ She wonders, _Pity?_

She knows what he is thinking, knows what he must see, and she stops him there, “I know, Reinhardt, I look— I look—”

No, she cannot say it, cannot even give voice to this. A final disappointment, on this night. She screws her eyes shut, cannot bear to see his face, the look of tenderness on it.

“You look beautiful,” says he, and _oh,_ she was not expecting this, was not expecting pride. He is _proud_ of her, not sympathetic.

She looks beautiful, he says, and for a moment, she can almost believe it. Sincerity is plain in his voice. To his eyes, she is beautiful.

Looking in the mirror again, seeing herself with him standing behind her, beaming with pride, she can almost believe it.

_Beautiful._

* * *

For the first time in many years, Angela is nervous as she looks in the mirror. Just as she did twenty years earlier, she stops, stares at herself, and is not entirely sure that what to think of what it is she sees. Again, she wants to cry, and again, her stomach is not entirely settled, but she does not wish, now, to flinch back, is happy with what she sees, and whom she is, and is confident that she looks beautiful in her dress.

This time, she wishes to cry from joy, cannot help but feel overwhelmed as she thinks of the day ahead of her. By the end of the day, she will be a different woman, will be someone not entirely different, but changed profoundly nonetheless, will no longer be Angela Ziegler, but Angela Amari. By the end of the day, she will be tied to another person, tethered to something—someone—in a way she has not wanted to be since Overwatch fell. _Angela Amari,_ she mouths to herself, and it feels so right.

This time, the feeling in her stomach is anticipation, is not true anxiety but excitement at what is to come. There is some nervousness, to be sure, this is a great change, but it pales in comparison to the joy she feels, near overwhelming. The lightness in her head is not the result of fasting, but because this moment feels nearly too perfect to be real, and at the same time feels hyper-real, the clarity of every sensation, every thought, making it hard to focus on any one thing.

_Focus_ , she thinks. _Breathe_. She does not want to miss a moment of this, wants to remember everything as well as she possibly can. It would not do to dwell.

But dwell she does, on her reflection, so different from the girl of twenty years ago. Physically, of course, she has changed, her hair is longer, her hips wider, her breasts actually noticeable. Her temperament, too, has shifted; no longer does she force herself to look at horrors and not flinch, no longer does she deny herself the ability to feel fear—she embraces all of herself, all of her emotions, does not deny herself vulnerability. Her demeanor, however, is what has changed most of all; she stands confident, now, does not shrink in on herself in an attempt to disguise her height, does not worry that her broad shoulders will ruin her silhouette (indeed, the back of her dress is bare, something a younger Angela would have never considered), does not look nervous, uncomfortable, smile too tight (like the skin on her body). Instead, she is before the mirror, shoulders back and feet planted wide, back straight, smiling, for she could not be happier.

Like this, she does not worry that anyone will think her any less of a woman than any other, for how could they? She knows what she is, and would defy anyone who thought to tell her otherwise. She is unafraid, now, to do so.

One last glance in the mirror, a final check of her makeup, and she lowers her own veil. She has spent time enough reflecting.

At the door of her dressing room, Reinhardt is waiting, for he has been as much a father to her as anyone, and can take the place of her parents in leading her to the chuppah, before Fareeha leads her inside.

The chuppah is large, far more so than the standard—a compromise, for if Fareeha wished to follow custom she would marry in a tent—and the two of them walk towards it at the same time, Ana leading Fareeha, with Angela by Reinhardt’s side. What Angela wants to do most, in that instant, is to peek around Reinhardt, to see the face of her beloved, but she cannot do so subtly, and Fareeha, although she has chosen not to be veiled, has asked that Angela not look at her until they are, both of them, in the chuppah to recite their vows, and to sign the contract. A blending of custom, and an sensible one, on paper—Angela did not know, when she agreed to do this, how hard it would be not to look, to have to wait to see Fareeha. Patience has ever been her virtue, but it abandons her now.

Together, the four of them stop, and out of the corner of Angela’s eye, Fareeha steps forward. She casts her gaze downwards, as they agreed, does not look at her soon-to-be-wife, even as her hand is taken, even as they step under the chuppah, and into its center, where she walks around Fareeha seven times. Her eyes are fixed on Fareeha’s shoes, until she is done, until it is time for them to recite their vows (there will be nothing more to their ceremony than this, than procession and vows and contract, for this is what they found to be common ground, and that, for them, is enough—in truth, they need little more than one another). Then, and only then, does she look up.

Fareeha is beautiful, in a crisp white suit, all strong lines and sharp edges standing in contrast to Angela’s own form, softened as it is by her dress, and in contrast, also, to her expression, one of great tenderness.

“You are beautiful,” Angela whispers to her, words almost caught beneath her veil.

Fareeha’s smile widens at that, just a bit further, before she peeks beneath Angela’s veil—one last custom, and answers in turn.

“No more so than you.”

Angela does not need to be told she is beautiful to believe it, not anymore, but to hear it now, in this context, leaves her no less emotional than the first time.

She _is_ beautiful, as is Fareeha.

_They_ are beautiful, together.


	3. 5/10/2016

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A response to the following ask on tumblr: [ How does Ana feel about Fareeha being trans?](http://agenthill.tumblr.com/post/151412834296/how-does-ana-feel-about-fareeha-being-trans)

The first time Fareeha defies her mother, it is mid-morning.

Every year, near her birthday, she takes a photo with her mother and whomever her mother is in a strike team with at the time. It is a tradition which has been such since she was an infant, her mother passing her around the squad she served with when Fareeha was born, a reminder of why it is they fight, and for whom, a gentler sort of memento mori. Every year, they take the picture, and every year, Fareeha is in a dress chosen for her by her mother.

This year, things are different.

She is thirteen, and when she looks at herself in the mirror she is not certain she likes what she sees. All her life, she has wanted to be strong, all hard lines and muscle, and now she is watching her body soften, hips widening and breasts forming. It is not a change she likes, but everyone feels the need to comment upon it anyway.

Before now, wearing dresses was tolerable, for it meant nothing, but now when she does so Uncle Gabriel tells her she is becoming a beautiful young lady, Commander Morrison jokes with her about _boys_ , and she feels like people are noticing her _body_ before they are noticing _her._ Fareeha is not interested in being beautiful, or boys, and would much rather talk about how much she is learning in class, how many push-ups she can now do, how much taller she has gotten.

To wear a dress would draw attention away from where she wants it, would make emphasize all the changes she does not like. So she shall not do so.

“Ummi,” she says, walking into the living room where her mother is sitting, book in hand, “I’m not going to wear this.”

Her mother raises an eyebrow, “And why not?” There is a hint of an edge to her voice, disapproving, but she still sounds more curious than anything, which is a relief to Fareeha, who is unused to disobeying her mother and did not know what to expect. She will have to tread lightly, certainly, but her mother is not angry with her, and will likely accept a reasonable explanation.

How best to say it, though? Fareeha is not entirely sure how she feels, does not know how to put into words the lurch in her stomach when she catches a glimpse of her reflection, the way her skin seems not to fit when she thinks about her body dressed like this, the sense of _wrongness_ she feels when people call her beautiful.

Perhaps that is not what is important, however. Perhaps a simpler explanation will suffice—her mother prefers to know everything about a given situation, certainly, prefers that no detail be overlooked, but she also prefers things be explained with as much clarity as possible. If Fareeha can be clear enough, then her mother may not press her for more information.

“I don’t like it.” says she, and hopes this is sufficient, “It makes me uncomfortable.”

Her mother frowns, and stands to look her in the eye. From her expression, Fareeha is given the distinct impression that, a year ago and seven inches shorter, her mother would have squatted down for this conversation, would have put hands on her shoulder. Now, it is not so. Fareeha supposes she is too old for such, but wishes such were not the case.

“I know you are embarrassed by the changes in your body, Fareeha, and that is normal, but there is no point in hiding them,” her mother’s tone is comforting, but her voice is firm—she will be difficult to dissuade without very good reason, and normally, Fareeha would never try to argue a point with her, when she has taken this tone, would never question her judgement, but here, it feels necessary, feels all important that Fareeha _not_ wear a dress.

“That’s not it,” says she, and sees her mother’s somewhat skeptical face, “It isn’t!” Her mother does not seem to believe her, and Fareeha supposes her mother is not _entirely_ wrong for that—Fareeha _is_ embarrassed, but that is not all she feels, is not the real source of her objections, “Well I’m not _just_ embarrassed. I just… it doesn’t feel right, wearing a dress. Feels like I’m pretending to be something I’m not.” “We all have to pretend sometimes, Fareeha,” is her mother’s answer, “And I don’t see how it is any different from when I’ve had you wear a dress before.” Despite her words, she says so more gently than she has spoken previously, and Fareeha begins to feel, for the very first time, that she might _win_ an argument with her mother.

But how to say what she wants to say? She chews her lip, feels her brow furrow, and scrunches her nose. “I don’t know…” she finally admits, “It just _is._ ”

Her mother waits for her to elaborate. _I don’t know_ is an unacceptable answer, in their household, and her mother has all the patience of a sniper. If Fareeha wants this conversation to end—ever—she is going to have to come up with an answer.

What changed? Not her, not at all. She is the same Fareeha as ever, even if everyone is treating her differently.

_Everyone is treating her differently—_ and there she has it, an answer. Not a good one, perhaps, but she hopes it will be enough. “I feel like everyone has all these expectations for me now that they didn’t before,” she explains, “And I’m not those things. I don’t know why, but now dresses aren’t _clothes_ they’re _being pretty_ and _catching boys_ and I don’t _want_ to be pretty or catch boys! I just want to be who I am.”

Now her mother leans back, looks at her differently, seems to consider for a long time what it is she is going to say. Fareeha is nervous, but this is a good sign, or so she tells herself, that she has not been denied outright. Probably. Hopefully. Maybe?

Just when Fareeha is beginning to squirm under her gaze, uncomfortable with the waiting and the scrutiny both, her mother acquiesces, “Alright, habibti. If that is how you feel, I’ll allow it. Go change into something that makes you comfortable.”

“Something nice!” she adds, Fareeha already halfway out of the room.

* * *

Many years and many, many arguments later, Fareeha asks her mother to come to her, rather than the other way around. At 32 years old, she does not think that she should be this nervous speaking to her mother, does not think that she should worry so much about her mother’s potential rejection, but she _does._ Partly, this is because she cannot forget the sting of her mother’s disapproval, fourteen years ago, when she first enlisted, cannot forget being told that all she was and wanted to be was a mistake, but mostly, she thinks, they are moving past that, and the reason she fears rejection so much is not because of their past, but because she still, despite herself, cannot help but care about her mother’s opinion of her. Always, Ana Amari has been her hero, has been the mold by which she cast herself, has been something—someone—to aspire to, and so for her to approve of Fareeha is of tantamount importance, is a validation that she is, in some way, worthy, is good enough to be that which she has always wanted.

Her mother’s opinion is not the only opinion that matters to Fareeha, not anymore, but it may still be the most important to her. (The only other opinion vying for the title of most important is Angela’s, and Fareeha has already received Angela’s acceptance in this, and all things, so it is not a concern, not now.) So it is that Fareeha finds herself incredibly, indescribably nervous. Several times in the past fifteen minutes she has nearly backed out, would have were it not for Angela’s reassuring texts, telling her that all will be well, and that yes, it is exactly as Fareeha said, to back out now would be ridiculous, when she has already had trouble finding the courage to arrange this discussion once. Even despite these messages, Fareeha is about five seconds from giving up, from tearing off her binder and finding _any_ excuse besides her actual purpose for having called her mother here, when there is a knock at the door of her and Angela’s shared quarters. Ana Amari, in the flesh.

“It’s open!” she calls out, still too nervous to greet her mother at the door, wanting to draw out slightly longer the time before they have this conversation. “Ahlen,” says her mother, removing her hijab as the door closes behind her. “Hello,” Fareeha replies, using English despite the fact that both of them are less comfortable with speaking such, because she knows her English is better than her mother’s, and it gives her just that little bit of extra confidence she needs in order to have this conversation. If the linguistic transition bothers her mother, she does not show it. Instead, she switches too, replying “You wanted to speak with me about something?” without so much as acknowledging the elephant in the room—she must have noticed Fareeha’s appearance, by now, cannot have overlooked her child’s unnaturally flat chest, or the masculine way in which she has styled herself. “Yes,” says Fareeha, and oh, she is going to have to _say_ it. Somehow, the years have not made this any easier, have not made Fareeha more able to do things which may run counter to her mother’s expectations of her. Still, she is brave, is a soldier, and she has already experienced the worst of rejections from her mother, she was fine before, without her mother, can survive without her, so why should she worry about this?

Despite her hesitance, she knows she need not worry about her mother pushing her to speak before she is ready. Not only can her mother wait, they both know that by doing so, by prolonging the silence, she is more likely to compel Fareeha to act than she would be if she gave an order.

“You must have noticed,” she says at last, gesturing at herself. They stand in silence while Ana formulates a reply, and despite being taller than her mother now, Fareeha feels somehow smaller than she was, so many years ago, feels more vulnerable despite being stronger. “I did,” she says at last, and that really is not much better than waiting for her to speak, not at all. “But, I am not just noticing now, Fareeha. I noticed _years_ ago. Was this what has had you so worked up lately?” “ _Yes,_ ” replies Fareeha, immediately, and then, “No. Maybe. It isn’t so much this as… the implications of it? But how did you know?”

“First, you shouldn’t ask things you know like they are questions; be more sure of yourself.” Of course her mother would correct her, even now. She cannot bring herself to complain about it however; the familiarity is almost a relief, “Second, I’ve known since you were thirteen. Don’t you remember telling me?”

“No,” says she, because it is true. Nineteen years ago, Fareeha did not know this about herself, had not an inkling of it. How could she, then, have told her mother?

Another pause. “Maybe you really _don’t_ remember,” her mother says, and then, by way of explanation, “You didn’t say it in as many words, only complained to me about wearing a dress. Had it not been for the fact that Angela had come out to us only a month earlier, I might have thought nothing of it; the way you discussed your discomfort was similar to something Angela had said. I’ve been waiting for you to properly tell me ever since.” All of this worry, and for nothing at all. Her mother knew all along—and why would she not? Ana sees everything, even with only one eye. Even before she knew, her mother did, and her mother loved—does love—her regardless.

“Ummi,” says she, pulling her mother into a hug and falling back into their native tongue, “I love you so much. I can’t tell you how much this means to me, that you accept this.“ 

Her mother hugs her back, fierce as only a mother can be, and replies with as much surety as she does everything.

"I will _always_ love you, Fareeha. Nothing could change that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 24 days later... I'm finally getting around to uploading. Eh, close enough.


	4. 6/10/2016

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A response to the following ask [on tumblr](http://agenthill.tumblr.com): [bangs fists on table] MORE NB FAREEHA TALES PLS my god they are so intensely relatable i cry every time i think about them

Lately, Fareeha is more conscious of her body, of the way in which she carries herself, the way she touches other people, of how it is she occupies a space. It is an exercise in mindfulness, and makes her feel in some ways as she did as a teenager, having to adjust herself to too-long limbs and too-large feet, or as she did when she first enlisted, learning to stand tall as a soldier for the first time, unconsciously mirroring those around her. How one moves is important, shapes how one is viewed by others, and Fareeha knows this, intimately.

Hers has always been a language of touch, and of motion. Where words and translation fail her, touch does not, has not, will not. Being strong, as she is, she has needed to be ever aware of her body’s limits, has needed to know how strongly she can afford to clap someone on the back, has needed to be contained, in a way that those who are not soldiers could not understand. Being strong, as she is, she has always cherished gentleness, has enjoyed what reprieve she can grant herself from being _only_ a soldier, has prided herself on her own ability to be soft, when she likes, among people with whom she is comfortable.

So now, when Fareeha watches others, she is well equipped to understand their body language, is easily able to read their own motions. Having been aware of her own body as she is, she knows well what she is seeing when others shrink on themselves, when they stand tall, when they are present, but unaware. She knows how it is they stand, understands the rhythm of their movement as well as she does her own, but what she does not know is this—how do they see her?

Not everyone, after all, is as gifted in the language of physicality as she is. For some people, it is as foreign on their tongue as the Schweizerdeutsch she has been attempting to learn for Angela. For some people, it is an impenetrable, untranslatable dialogue.

What, then, do these people see, when they see her?

Do they see her as the soldier she worked so hard to become, as the gentle person whom she has always been, or some combination of the two? The way she stands, the way she carries herself, does it communicate who she _is_ , or is she somehow misrepresenting herself?

And, perhaps most importantly, do they see her as a woman, or have they, like her mother, “always known” that she was something other, that she occupied a curious space between.

Until recently, Fareeha thought hyper-awareness of her own movement was a thing of the past, was whom she had been as a child, as a soldier still being forged, as a recent amputee, but this wondering, this need to know, this care for the opinions of others is not unlike the insecurity of her teenage years, the fear of failure which marked her time as Amari, name and rank, the clumsiness of relearning to use her arm.

Now, it is as it was before, each motion she makes in the fore of her mind. While she does not hesitate, does not _doubt_ herself, she has cause to consider. She finds herself comparing, more and more often, her own movements to those of her comrades. When she walks, she lacks the practiced grace of Satya, the skip of Lena, or the slinking, stalking pace of her mother; however, she does not lumber like Reinhardt, does not walk in the clipped motions of Jack, does not slouch through life like Jesse does. Her own movements are something solely her own, the precision of a soldier, yes, but with the looseness of someone who has never served.

What must the others think of it? Do they see the precision, the time she has dedicated to training, or her lighter nature, her good humor? Both, she would hope, but she doubts that is the case. Everyone is eager to put things into binaries, if needlessly. How to change their perceptions? How to stop everyone from forcing her into a box which she does not, cannot fit?

Rather than stewing any longer, she decides to ask an expert. Like her, Lùcio is kinetic. He may _prefer_ the language of music, but dance comes to him easily as well. If anyone can put into words what it is she is seeing, and feeling, it will be him.

(Besides which, he is an amputee as she is, and has therefore an awareness of his body that she strongly feels that the able bodied cannot have. To have felt betrayed by one’s own form, to have learned to accept a difference, and compensate for a change in motion afterwards, lends a unique perspective. Torbjörn and Jesse may have the same, and Angela, to a degree, having and losing feeling in her wings on a regular basis, but Lùcio’s perspective and hers seem most in alignment. It is with him she is given a sense of solidarity.)

The two of them already get along quite well, and so she need not worry about shoehorning the issue into a conversation; they talk often, and despite being jocular people, often find themselves in companionable silences. During one of the silences, she broaches the subject.

“Lùcio,” she asks him, sitting side by side as they catch up on various projects in one of the many common areas at Watchpoint: Gibraltar, “How do I move?”

“What, like, in general? Or do you mean dancing? Because if you’re talking about when we all went out for drinks last week, I have some bad news…”

She shoves him, lightly, feels his smaller body lean into the push and rock back, “In general. We can’t all be trained in capoeira.”

“No,” he laughs, “Some of us just have black belts in _three_ regular martial arts, and basic training in a dozen others.”

“Not a _dozen,_ ” she replies, “But enough that I could kick your ass.”

“Alright,” he says, “Alright, I got your point. No insulting the dancing ability of the great Fareeha Amari.” He grins at her, and then straightens a bit, “But back to your point… If I had to pick a word?” She nods, and he continues, “…comfortable. You move comfortably. _Off_ the dance floor.”

Well, comfortable is not what she expected, but comfortable is nice enough, she supposes. Comfortable is not the provenance of the soldier or the civilian, truly, and is not a strongly gendered term either. Comfortable just _is_ , as Fareeha just _is_. At a glance, it fits, well enough. She can be content with being comfortable, she thinks.

* * *

As it turns out, there is little contentment in comfort. As she lies, late at night, wrapped around Angela, she realizes that while she is comfortable with whom she is, to a degree, is happy with where she is at this point in her life, there remains the issue that she has _always_ been so. If she changes nothing, if she acts now just as she always has, and people have seen her as a woman all along, then how will the difference be demarcated? If and when she wishes to disclose her feelings about her gender to the rest of the team, and they have always thought of her as a woman, existing as she does, then might they not continue to do so? Might they not continue to read her actions as feminine ones, even if they do not consciously think of her as being a woman? Would such an accidental invalidation of her identity be better, or worse, than an outright rejection?

Fareeha sleeps not at all, wrapped up as she is in these thoughts, and come morning, finds herself watching Angela wake—content _and_ comfortable—in her arms. She thinks to lose herself, her worries, in a kiss, in Angela.

Pleasant as the kiss is, despite morning breath, distracting from troubling thoughts with sex is _Angela’s_ ploy, and so Angela sees through it immediately, “You haven’t slept, have you, Fareeha?” Years as a doctor have likely made diagnosing something so simple as sleeplessness simple, “You look exhausted, and I don’t seem to have been able to steal all the covers in my sleep.”

“You tried,” replies Fareeha, grinning despite her worries. Angela is cute like this, hair mussed from sleep and brow furrowed in such gentle concern, “But to answer your question… I didn’t, no.”

“Why not?” asks Angela, voice gentle but still, somehow, chiding. “You know I’ve asked you to wake me if you are having bad dreams or trouble with phantom pain. I could have helped with either.”

“My arm is fine, really, and it wasn’t dreams, not this time. Didn’t quite get that far.” Now, Angela’s concern has passed the threshold of gentle worry, has become true concern, and Fareeha hastens to reassure her, “It isn’t anything wrong, really, just a worry.” “A worry that kept you up all night,” they are equals in stubbornness, among many things, and Fareeha will not be able to distract Angela from this line of questioning by any means, not now that Angela has apparently decided that it may be a medical matter.

“Really,” she reassures, “It isn’t anything to make a fuss over. Just a a hypothetical situation that has me worked up.”

Angela waits, rather than replying, and Fareeha is going to kill her mother for giving Angela that particular tip. Always, always, waiting works. Fareeha can never, has never been able to, stand expectant pauses. Half a minute is all it takes for her to break, and fill the silence yet again, “I’m thinking about telling everyone about, you know. Me. My gender. And I’m realizing that I don’t know how things will change, if they will. Do I need to do anything differently? Will they expect me to? If I don’t does that make it any less real?”

“No,” says Angela, without really hesitating at all, “I don’t think so.”

“No to which?” Fareeha knows Angela, and knows her well, but she has a terrible habit of expecting everyone to make logical leaps with her, as a result of years spent in a research lab, which bleeds into conversation at the most inconvenient of times.

“All of them, I think.” She counts her points on long fingers, “You are you, as you are now. I don’t see why you would need to change to be somehow _more_ yourself unless you are presently moderating your own behavior in some way.” A frown, “You aren’t, are you?”

“No,” around Angela, there is no need for pretense. Angela knows her, knows all of her, and has accepted her for whom she is.

“Good. Then onto point two,” she raises a second finger, “I doubt if, as a whole, the others will expect you to change. You are still yourself, even if they shall know more of who that is. If they _do_ expect some change, they would be wrong for doing so.” For a moment, her expressions shifts to something fiercer, “And if anyone dares to question you, I won’t hesitate to set them straight. If that’s what you want, of course.” “It… probably will not be necessary, but I appreciate the offer,” and she does, but she would rather pick her own battles, and it would be naive to think that her mother would not also involve herself, in such a circumstance.

“I understand,” says Angela, then raises a third finger, “And finally, I don’t think it makes your identity any less valid for not wanting to change anything. When I first came out, I tried to change, to fit better into what I thought a woman ought to be, rather than just being myself. It didn’t work, and made everyone uncomfortable. I would _strongly_ advise against that course of action. Learn from my mistakes!”

“Do as you say, and not as you did,” says Fareeha, biting back a grin, “Such a typical thing for a doctor to say.”

Angela laughs, then, squirming out of Fareeha’s embrace, “Well, here is something else typical of a doctor for you, lying about in bed all morning isn’t healthy! Either get to sleep or get out of bed.”

“And what if there’s something I’d rather be doing in bed? What, then?”

“Well,” Angela replies, lashes lowering, “I suppose I might make an exception, in that circumstance, but you will have to be _very_ persuasive.” Perhaps the future is uncertain. Perhaps Fareeha does not know how others will perceive her, and react to her. Perhaps, here and now, that doesn’t matter.

“I can be persuasive,” says she, with a grin.

She can be whatever she so chooses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do I remember writing this? No! Am I sharing it anyway? Yes!


	5. 22/01/2017

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another tumblr prompt, with themes that carry over into the next chapter... which I'll hopefully remember to upload tomorrow! Both are done, but I hate to double-post. I don't want anyone missing anything, especially here as there is a considerable amount of thematic continuity.
> 
> Anyway, more NB Fareeha!

Aleks is not the first person Fareeha envisioned telling—for all that they are quite close, have become good friends and comrades, and speak nearly every day, they rarely discuss serious issues. Between the two of them, things have been kept light, conversation left to only jests, and little more. It is a comfortable arrangement, and not one Fareeha could have foreseen herself changing at any point in the near future. And yet, here she is. Up until this point, only Angela and her mother have known, only they have been told, and that is how Fareeha had thought it might stay for quite some time.

She is not afraid of coming out, per se—after all, she was never hesitant to proclaim her sexual identity, has always been quite open about being a lesbian—but she is afraid that somehow, things will change, even though she feels that, deep down, she has not. What she fears is not that her friends will reject her (she knows them better than that), but that they will expect from her things that she does not actually have any interest in doing. While she might not identify as a woman, she has no intention of changing her name, or even changing which pronouns she goes by—so what is there for her to say? What would be the point of interrupting the status quo? What would she do if, after learning this, her friends expect her to act differently, to change her behaviors more than she has already? What would she do if they shifted to accommodate her, and did too much? How would she explain it?

So, silence. There really is no reason to rush this, she does not feel compelled to voice something she has only know for a few months, does not want to speak before she knows what she wants, what this means to her. What would she say, when she does not know what she wants? Why speak, if there is no purpose behind her words?

And yet, speak she does.

There is no large proclamation, no planning behind it, just a simple exchange of words. It is not unlike bringing up her attraction to women—but that seems, to her, like it _ought_ to be casual by now, with the number of times she has done it before. This, she has done but twice, and therefore it would stand to reason that it would be more stressful, would be more significant than coming out in times past.

It is not. Nothing about the process is in any way extraordinary. She does not worry, there is no build-up, and they move on immediately afterwards. It is, ultimately, very anticlimactic.

It happens in the gym, she and Aleks training together as they do nearly every day. While she tries to set a new personal best bench-pressing, Aleks is spotting her. Both of them are sweaty, and tired, and Aleks is talking to her (or, _at_ her) while she completes the rep, trying to keep her mind from fixating too much on the difficulty of her task.

“Soon,” Aleks tells her, “I will have to worry about staying World’s Strongest Woman.”

Fareeha huffs out a laugh, for she knows full well she is nowhere near Aleks’ weight max, and glad complete a rep at half that weight, and be done with it. Without even thinking, still lying on the bench, she replies, “I wouldn’t worry about it—I’m not a woman.”

To her credit, Aleks pauses for only a moment, then laughs. “Then I need not worry! Let’s increase the weight.”

“Not today!” she answers, and that is that. Aleks does not press further, does not ask for clarification, or for any specifics, but moves on as if nothing was said at all.

Fareeha ought to be happy about that, but she finds herself dissatisfied. What has she been worrying for? Will it be like this with everyone, no questions asked? She imagines that it will not be but, still, a part of her feels almost silly for having worried.

Over the past month or so, she _has_ made rather a big deal of it, talking with Angela. Angela, who has done this time and again, who knows far better than Fareeha about this sort of thing, and reassured her that everything would be fine. It is… embarrassing. She has worried, has spoken at length about that worry, and for what?

Embarrassment is not an emotion Fareeha feels often, nor one she necessarily thinks is even well placed, here, but yet, there it is, sure as anything.

Logically, she knows a part of her should not be embarrassed, that this is the sort of thing about which it is normal to worry, and that things might have gone very differently, might yet go so when she speaks to the others.

(Lúcio, she imagines, will be very supportive, as he usually is, and will try to do everything he can to be as accommodating as possible but, well, how can she accept support when she is not sure what she needs? He is a good friend, her best friend, but there is a reason she has not told him first.)

So, her worry is not misplaced, has not been, even if in _this_ case, none of her fears came to fruition. Yet still, she feels embarrassed. It is not like her to talk about her fears, if she can avoid doing so, for she does not want to burden others with them, and learned, after enlisting, to internalize as much as possible, but she has become comfortable enough with Angela to allow herself to be vulnerable, to reveal that which she might otherwise conceal and, here, she feels it has come back to haunt her. How can she tell Angela that she worried both of them for naught?

(And there is the real fear—that in unburdening herself, she has become a burden, that she has allowed herself to become dependent, like she swore, when she left her mother’s home, that she never would be again, that she has allowed herself to become reliant on another person. Fareeha does not want that—or, perhaps she does, but she has thought for years now that she ought not to have it.)

* * *

Yet, tell Angela she does. Whom else could she tell? She is not yet comfortable divulging these sorts of things to her mother—while they are talking, again, Ana has yet to earn the right to access to Fareeha’s most private thoughts, has yet to regain the trust necessary for Fareeha to allow herself to be vulnerable before her, as she still remembers how her weaknesses were thrown in her face when they fought so many years ago, remembers angry words which were, in that moment, very much _meant,_ by both of them—and no one else, besides Aleks, the subject of this concern, knows enough about the situation to speak to about it.

(Besides which, Angela makes speaking so easily. Her hands are soft as they card through Fareeha’s hair, and her voice softer. She is used to listening, and seeing people at their worst, and will not judge. It is not as if she has not cried before Fareeha before, has not been embarrassed, scared, jealous, and everything in between. She could not judge Fareeha even if she were so inclined.) While they speak, Fareeha rests her head in Angela’s lap, staring at the ceiling just past Angela’s head. For all that Angela is not good at reading _people_ she has learned to read _Fareeha,_ and does not need to be told that something is troubling her, and has responded accordingly, as best she is able with what little information she has (which is to say, none at all). Her journals are set aside, the kettle set to boil, and a space on the end of the couch taken, so Fareeha might lie like this. Never does she bid Fareeha speak; that never works. Instead, she talks about her day, about this or that research, about something a colleague of hers once said, soothing Fareeha’s nerves until, at last, Fareeha finds herself blurting out what is bothering her.

(Everyone who knows Fareeha well also knows that, given time, she will speak. If she knows it is expected of her, she will, eventually, say what it is that is on her mind. Outwaiting Fareeha is easy—she never wins stalemates. _Captain_ Amari does, as does Pharah, on the battlefield, but Fareeha? She cannot stand the weight of expectation, not for long, not when some days it feels as if it has been suffocating her for her entire life.)

“I told Aleks,” she says, when Angela pauses for a moment to take a breath.

“Oh?” asks Angela, and nothing more. She need not ask _what_ Fareeha has told Aleks, for they have been heading towards this for months, have discussed this as something which is inevitable, something Fareeha _will_ do, sooner or later, something she has decided is the best course of action. (Even as Fareeha, she always follows through on her decisions. Some part of her is always military.)

If Angela is surprised, she does not show it, and in contrast to Aleks’ calm acceptance, it is comforting. To do the expected, to know that even if it was unexpected to _herself_ this was still something that they agreed was best practice, is comforting, in a way. A part of Fareeha likes fulfilling expectations—routine is good, as a soldier. Routine missions mean safety. It is only when things do not go according to plan that people are hurt.

Which is precisely why her conversation with Aleks is bothering her so much. Should Aleks not have been surprised? Where did Fareeha miscalculate, and why?

This is not what she says to Angela. What Fareeha says to Angela is not in military terms, for while Angela may _understand_ such, she does not _know_ it, does not feel he truth of it in her bones the way Fareeha, and her mother, and all of the other soldiers they know do.

What she says to Angela, instead, is, “Yeah, and she wasn’t surprised, didn’t even react really.” She almost shrugs, but her position makes it difficult, so she merely pauses for a second before continuing, “Which, I mean, is what I wanted but it just feels—I feel like she should have—I don’t know. I worried so much about how I would answer any questions that it caught me off-guard when she didn’t have any.”

“Is that all?” asks Angela, sounding, if anything, slightly amused.

“Well… no. Maybe? I mean that is what’s bothering me. I just feel like there should have been _something._ This is a big deal to me, and to her it was just shrug-and-move-on. And I’m embarrassed! I’ve been telling you—well, you know.”

“I do,” says Angela, and her voice is more soothing this time. “The same thing happened to me telling you, did it not?”

And now Fareeha feels _more_ embarrassed, if anything. Less than a year before, she had told Angela that her being trans did not change a thing between them—and had said nothing more on the matter. This is a similar situation.

And yet, she does not feel the same way about it that Angela, did, does not feel relieved, but is ashamed of her previous behavior, is ashamed to have _worried_ so, to have been vulnerable before Angela.

Before the silence can grow too long, and before Fareeha can decide what to do, Angela speaks again, “What is _really_ bothering you?”

Damn Angela for knowing her well enough to see through her discomfort. Damn those soft hands, the soft voice, the soft eyes.

Especially damn the fact that she knows well enough to wait. Naught but two minutes of silence puts Fareeha right where Angela wants her, blurting out the answer to the question set to her.

“I feel silly. I feel like—like I worried you, and I shouldn’t have. Like I was too dramatic—like I’m being too dramatic about this right now! It isn’t a big deal, but I built it up to be one and I'm—I’m not used to that, to being like that. I’m not used to being so… open.”

The fingers running through her hair stop, and it’s a moment before Angela responds, voice sounding further away than before, “Neither am I.”

A pause, between them, and then the fingers resume their movement, “It’s something we can work on together, hmm?”

_Together._

“Yes,” Fareeha agrees, “That sounds nice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while since I posted anything, which I do apologize for. I've just not been liking anything I've written, lately. In general, I'm quite persnickety about what fics I enjoy, and that extends to myself. Couple that with SAD and ongoing physical stuff--which I'm having surgery to correct next Tuesday!--and I've just produced nothing I felt worth posting. 
> 
> Huge shout-out to Calliope and tumblr-user chocochipbiscuit for saying nice things about my writing which gave me the kick in the pants to upload again!
> 
> Hopefully your 2017 is going more swimmingly than my own, and if not, hopefully fic helps a little. <3


	6. 23/01/2017

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another day, another request. Pretty heavily references the chapter before. A little bit more internalized transphobia than usual, but it's more "Angela has a bad dysphoria day" than anything.

Angela Ziegler is not—and has never been—good at asking for things. She can demand that people follow her orders in an operating theater, can request that patients follow discharge instructions, but she cannot, for the life of her, ask for something for _herself._ She never has been able to and, she is afraid, she never will be.

(If anyone asked her—though no one will—she would say that she did not know why, which would be a lie. At the heart of the matter is the fact that, while Angela thinks very highly of her abilities, she does not think very highly of her own _deservingness._ Certainly, the things her mind has earned her—position, prestige, power—are rightly hers, but happiness? Love? These she cannot imagine that she deserves, for they have never been hers for the taking. So it is that she cannot ask for things for herself, cannot ask for favors or trivial things.)

But this is something which, in her mind, needs to be asked, for her survival, not her happiness, if only she can find the words for it. Not only is it something which she has wanted for years but it is something with which, she knows, she might be happier, less prone to bouts of depression. Something with which she might be free from every mission briefing bringing with it a feeling of nausea and unease, something with which she might be more confident, might at last feel more at home in the base where she has been living for the past four years.

The request is not even a difficult one, or one that is unreasonable. Simply, she wants her pronouns and name changed in official documents, wants to be called correctly by her commanding officer when he addresses her in front of all of her colleagues (her friends, her family). Yet, she finds she cannot ask, no matter how hard she tries.

She _needs_ this, cannot keep living in a place where, day in and day out, she is misgendered, but in order for the Strike Commander to call her by the correct name, she needs, first, to ask that he do so.

To say such ought not to be a difficult thing. She travels to war zones, saves patients no one else could, pushes ever further the boundaries of technology and medicine—but she struggles with something so simple as coming out, and requesting _this,_ requesting that he not only modify his behavior around her, but also that he order everyone else to do so, is difficult. For some of them, she knows, it will not be easy to adjust to the change, will take time, and effort, and she knows, logically, that this should not matter, that this is a matter of respect for her humanity and identity, but knowing and believing are two different things.

Angela _knows_ she has every right to not be misgendered, she _knows_ that to ask this would not be asking too much—or much at all—but feels, nonetheless, like a burden for wanting ( _needing_ ) this.

Which is why, despite having rehearsed a speech, having run through all possible ways this might go wrong in her head, and even gone so far as to write out the steps of this meeting, Angela finds herself standing outside the door to the Strike Commander’s office, shifting her weight from foot to foot, biting her lip, and making _absolutely no move_ to knock. She wants this, and badly, but she cannot force herself to push through her feelings of anxiety, and undeservingness.

Despite telling herself that this is simple, will be quick and easy, Angela still does not move from where she stands until she hears the door at her back open.

“Dr. Ziegler?” asks Ana, “What _are_ you doing here?”

Angela opens her mouth to answer, but finds that, once again, she does not know how to give voice to the problem, and moreover, even if she could, does not know how she could begin to explain that, despite wanting something so fiercely, she is stopping herself from having it.

Dissatisfied with her continued silence, Ana asks again, “Dr. Ziegler?”

And the sudden realization that, somewhere along the line, Ana realized her discomfort with her first name and returned to the use of her surname is enough, suddenly, to make her start to tear up.

She hates crying, crying in front of others more so, and crying in front of superiors most—she feels weak, and vulnerable, and very much as if, by displaying her emotions, she is proving everyone who ever said she was too young to do things, or too unsuited by virtue of her disposition, right. (So, usually, she does not cry, has spent the better part of a lifetime learning not to do so.) Yet, here she is, about to cry in front of her commanding officers in front of the door to her _other_ commanding officer’s office. This is, somehow, worse than the worst case scenario she had rehearsed.

From what she knows of Ana, from what she has seen on missions and what conversations they have had, she will try to be a comfort, if Angela allows it—but how can she? To do so would be to admit that she is a burden, is on some level everything that her naysayers have called her—young, emotional, soft.

“I’m sorry,” she forces out, unwilling to meet Ana’s eyes, like she knows is proper military conduct, and is expected her, lest she see the _mothering_ look she knows Ana employs—Angela has no mother, has not had one in years, and will not have Ana be one to her now. “I’m sorry,” she says, again, voice growing a bit stronger with each word, “I must have left something in my office. Please tell the Commander I’ll be late to our meeting, if he asks.”

She absolutely does not flee. She turns on her heel, and walks—quickly, yes, but she walks—back to her office, already fabricating a different reason for meeting as she does so.

(In the end, it is only Jesse volunteering to help her that pushes her to finally say something—she does not want to need anyone, does not want to burden him with holding her hand through this, does not want him to feel as if their friendship is just her _needing_ him, and that is enough to counter her other fears.)

* * *

Twenty years later and Angela knows, before she even gets out of bed, that it is going to be a bad day. In her dreams, she referred to herself by a name which, in truth, was never hers, inadvertently outing herself to her new colleagues in the process. She wakes nauseous, in a sweat, with her skin feeling much too tight against her body and just _wrong,_ in a way she rarely feels, these days. Out of sorts with herself. She need not look in a mirror to know that today, she will not like what she sees, will not see all the ways in which she looks like she ought but will, instead, notice everything about herself which does not fit. (Already, she takes inventory in her mind, the width of her jaw, the narrowness of her hips, even her height, all strikes against her.)

When she washes the sweat from herself, it is in darkness, such that she cannot see her body, and the water is as hot as she can make it, as if she could burn away the feeling of _wrongness,_ of not-quite fitting, that she has never quite been completely able to shake.

(Most days, it is far from her mind, only creeping in during too-long silences and restless nights. Most days, it can be ignored, pushed aside to be dealt with later. But later does come, _has_ come, today.)

After showering, she does not dress and go to the lab, as she often would, but instead she returns to bed. She knows herself well enough, now, to know that on days like this, she will not be focused anyway, will not be able to concentrate on the experiments and calculations before her knowing that someone could walk in at any instant and ask for something—she could not bear, right now, to be seen, even if there is nothing about her which is outwardly different from any other day of the year. The shift in her own self-perception will not change how anyone else perceives her, she knows this, but still, she stays in. This happens rarely enough that she can afford to, and not arouse suspicion over her broken routine.

Or, once she could.

Such is, apparently, no longer the case, for while Fareeha might have left for her morning workout long before Angela woke, and therefore not seen the state Angela was in immediately upon waking, Fareeha _does_ notice when Angela is absent from their regular lunch date and, shortly after Angela misses Zvieri too, stops back at their quarters to check up on her.

What Angela wants to do is shrug it off, to lie to Fareeha and say she has a cold, and that is why she has stayed abed. What she wants to do is to act as if everything is well, to hope that this all blows over. What she wants to do is deny herself vulnerability, to be as strong as she has pretended to be, for so many years.

(It would be easy to turn away Fareeha’s concern like she did her mother’s, so many years before—but one Captain Amari is not the other, and it would not do to treat her lover so, would not do to shut her out, especially when she and Fareeha both have agreed to work on this, together, have agreed to be more open with one another, and honest with themselves. As she feels the bed dip behind her with the weight of Fareeha moving to sit on it, she knows she must at least try to be honest, for both of them.)

When Fareeha asks her what is wrong—voice as earnest, as caring, as compassionate as it has ever been, Angela does that which she has so rarely been able to do, and decides to confide in Fareeha, to give voice to what troubles her, to risk being a burden (because if she does not, how can she expect Fareeha to, and if she thinks Fareeha is no burden, then Fareeha must not think her one either).

Or, she tries to. When it comes to actually speaking, as opposed to just deciding to do so, she finds that words fail her. What can she say to describe this? She does not know where to begin, or how. All she manages is, “I’m just… it’s…” before she trails off, unsure of how to continue.

“…Just one of those days?” Fareeha suggests, and while Angela is certain that Fareeha’s definition of ‘one of those days’ is not the same as her own, it is close enough in meaning, and she has no better words, so she simply nods, and sits up, to better see Fareeha, knees tucking up against her chest.

“I’m sorry,” says Fareeha, and Angela knows that she means it—Fareeha always wishes she could protect everyone she knows from being hurt, and takes it as a personal failing when she cannot—because she has often felt the same way, when she knows Fareeha is hurting. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

So, in the hope that, next time, Fareeha will be able to ask the same of her, Angela takes the first step, and, for once in her life, does not feel guilty when asking for help.

“Could you just hold me?” she asks, and hates how small her voice sounds, how hesitant—that is not the woman she wants to be. But the instant Fareeha’s arms close around her, she feels stronger for it and thinks, perhaps, the moment of weakness was worth it, for this.

“Of course,” says Fareeha, strong and sure, “You don’t even have to ask.”

And perhaps, she does not, but she feels better for having done so, feels more sure in the knowledge that the next time one of them needs something, they will be able to ask.

“Thank you,” she says, and does not specify for what.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost forgot I said I was gonna post this today... but here I am. Kind of on time. Like 40 minutes late but w/e w/e.
> 
> We Are All  
> Have Bad Dysphoric Days Sometimes  
> but hopefully we all have someone who will just hold us when we need it... and unlike Angela don't practically die trying to ask it lmao.
> 
> IDK when I'll next be updating anything... probably not til after surgery next week, and even then I'm busy with Femslash Feb Reqs (which I don't cross-post unless the requester specifies I can) so. It's a mystery.


	7. 21/2/2017

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got an ask about Angela's sexuality on tumblr. Responded 10000 years late with this.

From where she sits on his bed, Angela can see all of Jesse's—very untidy, and quite small—room, and his back. She need not see his face to know that it is fraught with worry; she knows him well enough by now that she can read his concern in the tension of his shoulders, in the way one hand moves to adjust and re-adjust the brim of his hat every few seconds. Supposedly, he is packing to go on a mission in his home state with Blackwatch, but it looks to Angela as if he is staring down his clothes, rather than packing them.

“Are you planning on packing,” she asks, teasing to try and gauge his comfort level before prying, “Or are you simply going to stare at your clothes until they pack themselves?”

All Angela gets in reply from Jesse is a grunt, non-committal, and a shake of his head—most unlike him. Usually, Jesse uses his linguistic advantage to run circles around her in conversations, witticisms and colloquialisms leaving her far behind. For him to not respond at all is concerning to her, to say the least.

She pauses, breathes in air still tainted by the scent of an extinguished cigarillo, tries not to think of how the scent will cling to her when she leaves, and then prods him again.

“Jesse?” He pivots towards her, this time, and she can see the profile of his face. “You asked me here for a reason, surely.”

He walks past her, arms full of clothes, and places them in his bag on the bed next to her. Still not a word, or even an attempt at eye contact. She thinks to speak, but then he is walking past her again, and to his desk—rarely used, if the dust motes she watches rise are any indication—placing his hands down on it and staring out the window.

Like this, face lit by the setting sun, he could be handsome, were it not for the haggardness that hangs about him.

“I’m worried about the mission, is all,” says he, and Angela does not believe it for one minute. “Goin’ back… there are some things I’d rather not stir back up.”

When he says it like that, his worries make sense, but Angela has seen Jesse with pre-mission jitters before, knows the way he plays with Peacekeeper, or flicks his lighter, does anything to keep his hands busy in order to mask his nervousness. Now, however, his hands are still, and flat, no hint of the usual play he engages in to occupy them evident in his motions.

While Jesse may beat Angela at cards consistently, here she _can_ call his bluff, and she does. “Deadlock isn’t what bothers you. I know you and Commander Reyes have faced them before.”

“No,” he admits, hat sliding down to cover his eyes even further, “No, it ain’t.”

“Then what is?” she asks, “I can’t help you if you will not _tell_ me.”

“I’m worried about what the rest of the guys’ll think. I’ve never… It’s always been Reyes an’ me back there.”

Again, a reasonable enough explanation, but something is missing. Everyone Jesse works with in Blackwatch is well aware of his history with the Deadlock Gang.

“ _Jesse._ ” This is as close as she will come to chiding him; while the two of them have only one another to confide in, she understands that there are things he may not be ready yet to share, knows what it is to feel trapped by a secret. When he is ready, he will tell her, but she hopes it is sooner than later.

She can see the way Jesse’s whole body expands and then collapses on itself as he takes one deep breath, and then another. At the very least, he is considering speaking.

While she waits, Angela fiddles with the fringe his serape on the bed next to her—he is not the only one with restless hands. She feels the threads move beneath her fingers, pushed apart and then rolled back together.

“D'you remember the girl I said I had back home, the first few months I was here?” Of course Angela does; she wrote Jesse letters which made him cry from homesickness, late at night in the room the two of them once shared, and Angela remembers lying awake, pretending to sleep, selfishly wishing she had something—someone—back home to miss.

“Well,” says Jesse, pausing one final time before he speaks again, “She weren’t no girl, Angela.”

 _Oh._ Now, Jesse’s nervousness, his reticence make sense—she knows what it is to come out, even if her experience is limited to doing so about being trans.

Instead of saying anything reassuring, which she doubts would be helpful in this situation, Angela blurts out the first thing that comes to mind, “So your crush on the new demolitions expert…?”

“Naw,” he says, “That’s real.”

They lapse into silence again. There is something, still, Jesse wants to say, his jaw is set in the way it always is when he is about to admit to something unpleasant. Angela turns so that her body faces him as well, swinging her feet up onto his bed and sitting cross-legged.

“I just thought, comin’ here, I could start over. I’m bi and I thought… you know, I could just date girls an’ no one would question it. Then I wouldn’t… wouldn’t hafta kill anyone to prove I was tough, wouldn’t hafta be the best of the best just to earn half the respect anyone else would get.” Angela can see, from where she sits on the bed, that Jesse is crying, can see the way the light catches his tears, but feels she cannot acknowledge them, given the topic of conversation, even if she wishes she could. “An’ now… I don’t know what’s gonna happen when the boys find out, Angela. I don’t know what they’ll think of me.”

Everything Angela could say to him feels like a platitude, or worse, patronizing and emasculating, so instead she settles for, “You’ll get through it, Jesse. You always do.”

“I always do,” he agrees, and the corner of his mouth turns upwards in the tiniest of grins, “Come hell or high water.”

* * *

When Jesse finds her, she can just barely see the pre-dawn light on the horizon. Normally, Angela would not be up so early, but the recalled Overwatch has brought old nightmares back to the fore at the same times as it produces new ones. So, she does what she can, and tends to the Watchpoint’s few plants where they sit in the sill of the rec room’s window.

After so many years, Jesse knows Angela well enough that he can be certain that she ought to be asleep at this hour—and also knows why she is not. Instead of prying, he moves to sit behind her, the jingle of his spurs and scent of smoke betraying his identity, and wheeze of his favorite chair making it easy to identify his position. She need not turn around to see him sprawled out, one leg over an arm of the chair and one arm resting atop it.

“So,” says he, breaking the quiet of the morning, “You and Fareeha, huh?”

“Yes,” she answers simply. At this point, she could not hide their relationship even if she wished to; even before she and Fareeha were a couple, their mutual attraction was an open secret, so they have no hope of attempting to keep things private now.

“You’re a good pair, don’t get me wrong. I’m happy that ya finally found somebody for yourself.”

Angela can tell, just from Jesse’s tone of voice, that his next sentence will begin with “but,” and she feels herself stiffen in response.

“But,” says he, and Angela really, truly, hates being correct, at times like this, “I didn’t think you were into ladies.”

So _that_ is what this is about. Angela relaxes slightly, and realizes she has just drowned one of their plants. Hopefully, the extra water will not hurt it too much—she makes a mental note not to water it as much as the rest, tomorrow.

“I am,” she answers him, and moves on to the next plant, carefully removing its dead leaves before she goes to water it as well. If he wants to jump to conclusions, she will let him; her sexuality is still a subject she is not entirely comfortable discussing, and he ought to have waited for her to bring it up.

“You mighta _told_ me,” he says, and Angela realizes, abruptly, that she has miscalculated. He does not sound demanding of her, but hurt. “All that time when I was worryin’ about what everyone would think of me ‘cause I was bi… and all along you were too.”

She does turn around now, and looks for his eyes, hidden beneath the brim of his hat. Setting the watering can down on a nearby table she walks towards him, but stops three steps in when she realizes she has no idea what it is she wishes to say to him.

“I’m jus’ hurt,” says he, “That you didn’t trust me enough to say anythin’. It’s been eighteen years, Angela! I thought we were past this, thought we could share anything with each other.”

“ _Jesse,_ ” says she, still frozen halfway between him and the windowsill, “I didn’t mean to keep it from you I just—I didn’t know what to say.” She does not say she trusts him, because there is little point in that, Jesse always has done far better with being shown things than being told them, but she _does_ trust him, perhaps more than she trusts even Fareeha. Before Angela had anyone else, she had Jesse, and he has stayed her constant friend, is still the person closest to her today.

He sits up, then, leans forward to look her dead in the eye. Eye contact with anyone makes Angela a bit uncomfortable, but Jesse’s eyes have a particular intensity to them. When they first met, she was afraid of those eyes, and even now, it is not a pleasant thing to be the subject of their scrutiny.

“How about, oh I dunno, 'Gee Jesse, I’m bi too, don’t beat yourself up about it.’ That woulda been real nice to hear, back then.”

“I’m not!” Angela replies, and the force of it almost surprises her. The two of them rarely fight, and she feels very much off kilter. “Or, I don’t think I am, anyway. I don't—I don’t know _what_ I am, Jesse.”

He lets her break eye contact, then, and she stares at the wall behind him, looks at the way the light has begun to fall upon it. Her face is heated with embarrassment, at not knowing, even now, and anger, and upset, but at least she is not crying—that would be a further point of embarrassment. A part of Angela feels that she _ought_ to know, by now, such things, just as she feels a need to find definitive answers to everything in her research. She does not like being the only puzzle to which she herself cannot find a solution, and worries that she is somehow lacking for it.

“Angela,” Jesse says, voice softer, “Hey, it’s okay.”

She can hear him walk closer to her, can see his movements in her peripheral vision, and tracks the motion of his shadow across the wall. It does not surprise her, therefore, when strong arms wrap around her, and she does her best to return the hug—awkward as her hugs tend to be.

“You don’t gotta know,” he tells her, voice coming from just above her left ear. “Not now, not ever. I’m sorry I pushed about it. You don’t gotta call yourself anything if you ain’t ready to.”

Those words are ones Angela did not realize, until Jesse said them, that she needed to hear, and she does find herself starting to cry then, held in his arms.

She takes a deep breath in, focuses on the feeling of Jesse’s steady breathing, of the surety with which he holds her, of the warmth of the sun on her back.

“Thank you,” says she, for with him she need only be herself, and nothing more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To conclude, shrugging man emoji. I don't think Angela really knows at this point, since she's kinda just now realizing/coming to terms with the fact that she's attracted to women.
> 
> Also, I love Jesse, and he's definitely more than once said "It's bi noon."
> 
> I'm actually uploading this the day I posted this to tumblr, for once. Improvement! Meanwhile, the Fareeha companion will be up there first, because... I'm too lazy to write two A/Ns in a day. Seriously. 
> 
> Hope you're having a great day!


	8. 22/03/2017

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another day, another ask prompt answered. I mean actually I answered it on Tuesday but I've never pretended to update on here promptly.

In the Amari household, dinner is an orderly affair; many other things in the lives of the Amari family are, but there are rules to which Fareeha knows she must adhere, here, that she does not elsewhere. Living on a military base, there are always rules, and Fareeha is a girl with a strong sense of what is good and what is not, and therefore does her best to obey them, especially the ones about safety, but the rules of eating with her mother do not make nearly as much sense to Fareeha, and increasingly often she finds herself pushing their boundaries.

So, when she speaks, it is in English.

“Mama,” says she, “I heard Reinhardt and Uncle Gabriel talking earlier and—”

“ _Fareeha,_ ” one word from her mother is enough to silence her. Most of the time, it is difficult for her to believe that her mother is the subject of scrutiny and fear by recruits, but sometimes, she bends a rule, or finds a loophole to one, and her mother _looks_ at her, and Fareeha can almost, almost understand. But the look is gone in an instant, and replaced by a softer, if no less stern, expression, “You know we don’t speak English at the dinner table. Try it again.”

For a moment, Fareeha considers protesting—her question is about a word _in English,_ after all, and she does not see the point of speaking in Arabic every night, she has not lived in Egypt in years, everyone on base speaks English, and all her friends here in Switzerland speak German with her—however, she thinks the better of it. While she has increasingly become interested in questioning _why_ things are good, and proper, she knows that her mother is not necessarily the best person to ask these things of, especially when she has just returned from a mission, as she has tonight.

“Ummi,” she starts again, and her mother hums in acknowledgement, “Earlier I overheard Reinhardt and Uncle Gabriel talking—I wasn’t eavesdropping! I was just walking by, honestly,” she adds, in response to the eyebrow her mother raises at the word ‘overheard.’ “Anyway, I overheard them talking, and they said that someone was a ‘lesbian.’ What does that mean?”

Her mother frowns, then, and lets her right hand rest at the edge of the table, seemingly done eating for now. “They shouldn’t be gossiping like that in public. It’s unbecoming of officers, and you shouldn’t spread such rumors.”

“ _Ummi,_ ” Fareeha whines, before remembering that at twelve years old she ought to be too mature for such nonsense. In a tone that seems, to her, much more reasonable and adult, she continues, “I only asked you for clarification, I didn’t even know it was anything worthy of spreading in the first place. I might have, if I knew what it meant, but I _don’t,_ which is why I asked.”

Her mother’s face is considering as she scoops up tehina with a piece of eish baladi. “Yes,” she agrees, “I suppose you might have.”

While Ana takes another bite, Fareeha does her best not to squirm in her seat—she is impatient, and does not like _not knowing_ things, but there is no point in trying to rush her mother, and there never has been. Snipers need far greater patience than the average adult person, and Fareeha, a child of twelve, does not stand a chance.

Soon enough, however, Ana is done with chewing, and once again looks at Fareeha, “A lesbian,” she says, breaking her own rules and speaking in English, “Is a woman who is interested in relationships with other women, and not men.”

Now it is Fareeha’s turn to pause as she mulls over the words, “So if I—sorry, sorry, Arabic, I know,” her mother nods, and Fareeha knows better than to try and argue about hypocrisy, “So if I didn’t want to marry a man, I wouldn’t have to?”

At that, her mother laughs, “I’m not married, Fareeha! Whatever gave you the idea that you would have to be married to a man someday?”

 _Oh,_ thinks Fareeha, _right._

“I dunno,” she answers honestly, “I just see men and women married in all those old movies Reinhardt is always watching.”

“Those terrible romances?” her mother is still laughing, a little.

“They aren’t terrible!” Fareeha protests, “They’re lovely. Hopeful, and pretty, and everyone gets a happy ending! I want a life like that, too, when I’m older. I just don’t think I want to marry a man.”

“I see,” says her mother, and takes a sip of her water.

“Does that mean I’m a lesbian?” she asks, because if anyone can tell her, surely it will be her mother, who sees everything and knows even more.

“I can’t tell you that, Fareeha,” she replies, from her place across the table. “That’s a question you’ll have to answer for yourself.”

Fareeha thinks of the girls in her class, with their pretty long hair, thinks of the way her best friend moves beautifully when they play ball, thinks of how nice the girl who sits next to her in her math class smells. Could she imagine a future with any of them? A big wedding with a kiss at the end, just like in Reinhardt’s movies? A happy, whole life?

“I think I might be,” she says, slowly, still thinking about the implications of her own statement as she makes it. “Is that okay?”

Her mother smiles at her then, and says, “As long as you are happy dear, I don’t mind what you are. I just want you to be happy, and safe.”

“Okay,” says Fareeha, and nearly joins her mother in silence, before another thought occurs to her. “Am I allowed to tell people, or is that gossip, too?”

“You can tell anyone you want to, I suppose,” her mother replies, “It is, after all, your own business. You just shouldn’t talk about whom other people are attracted to.” “Yes, Ummi,” Fareeha agrees. Another pause, and then, “Can I have dessert?”

* * *

“You sure you don’t want a turn?” Fareeha asks, offering her fishing pole to Lúcio.

“Nah,” he says, from where he stands next to her on the bank, looking out at the lake with great interest.

“You really just came on a weekend long fishing trip with me to look for frogs?” Fareeha cannot help but shake her head at that. Fishing is _not_ a particularly interesting past time to observe, as Angela so hopefully pointed out when asked if she would like to come along. “I admire your dedication to your amphibious friends.”

“What can I say? They make me _hoppy!_ ”

Fareeha cannot ever restrain her laughter at bad puns, and does not care to try. Refusing to be outdone, she fires back, “Well I _hop_ coming along was worth it, then! I would hate for you to be down in the _Dumpy’s_ after this trip!”

“It seems we are on the _flippery_ slope to this trip becoming pure _pun_ demonium!” Lúcio answers, before she can so much as catch her breath. Of all of the people she serves with, only he and Mei can keep pace with her puns, and with all of the stress of protecting the world, joking with them is a welcome break.

“Well,” she begins to reply, “If that happens then— _Oh!_ Got another one!” Another fish for dinner is only marginally a better catch than a chance to use a particularly juicy pun, but it _is_ better, nonetheless, and so she lets Lúcio win this bout of jesting.

He very pointedly does not look as she reels in her prize, focusing instead on the patch of reeds where he _swore_ he spotted a frog an hour or so previously. Charitably, Fareeha decides against teasing him for it—he can handle himself, on a battlefield, after all, so it does not _really_ matter if fish make him a bit squeamish.

When she has baited her hook and recast, she tells him it is safe to look again. Unlike the four times previously, he does not bother to try to argue that he was just trying to spot the frog again.

Instead, he returns to her previous question, “You were right though, frogs weren’t the only reason I wanted to come.” He sounds a bit nervous, which is unlike him, and Fareeha tries—not entirely successfully—not to let it set her too much on edge.

“Oh?” she asks, neutrally as possible.

“Yeah. I uh… wanted to talk to you about something. You know, without worrying about your mother’s all-seeing eye catching it. Or, you know, actual, literal ninjas sneaking around and overhearing us.”

“Okay,” says Fareeha, even less reassured by the direction this conversation is taking. “Shoot.”

“Does your mother… _know_ about you and Angela?”

This time, Fareeha laughs in relief, “Of course! I couldn’t hide it from her if I tried—she knows _everything._ ” A pause, she considers, “I was kind of worried she might disapprove about me dating _Angela_ , because they haven’t always seen eyes to eye, if you’ll forgive the pun, but I wasn’t worried about her reaction to the fact that I’m dating a woman, if that’s what you’re really asking. She’s known I was gay since I was a kid.”

Next to her, Lúcio is silent. While patience is not one of her better skills, Fareeha is well aware that there is a time and a place to rush others, and surely if she can stand here for hours trying to catch fish, she can wait a few moments for her best friend to gather his thoughts. Still, it is, for her, an exercise in restraint, to wait and listen to the sound of birdcalls in the distance, and the croaking of the ever-elusive frogs.

“I think I…” Lúcio starts, and stops. Fareeha watches him flex his hands and roll his shoulders, the same way he does before battle or performing. “Actually,” he continues, sounding more sure of himself, “I _know_ I have feelings for Genji. I just don’t know what to _do_ about them.”

Turning her attention away from the fish and towards Lúcio, Fareeha asks, “What do you want to do about it?”

“I’m not sure yet. I know he likes dudes, if his stories about his playboy days are true, and I _think_ he’s telling me half this stuff to flirt—although I’m not as sure about that one—but I don’t know what my vovó would think, and she and I are close. I don’t want her to disapprove of me.”

Both of them are facing one another now, so Fareeha tries not to frown while she considers. “It never even occurred to me that my mother might disapprove of me being gay,” _the disapproval,_ she thinks, _came later,_ “So I don’t really know if I can help you there. from what I’ve heard your grandmother loves you very much, though, and I doubt she’ll have a problem with this. Plus, she might finally stop trying to set you up with her friends’ granddaughters.”

Lúcio perks up a bit, at that, “I can only hope! Half of them didn’t give me the time of day when I was still just the scrawniest boy in the favela, you know? I was _not_ a neighborhood heartthrob as a teen; it’s the fame they really like, not me. Which is hard, too, because I was _really_ into some of them as a kid, and I want to be able to find someone and know that they care about me for who I am.”

“And Genji does,” Fareeha says, not a question but a statement.

“Yeah,” Lúcio agrees, “He does. It’s nice.”

“Well,” Fareeha says, clapping him on the back, “Good news on that front. He _definitely_ doesn’t brag about his playboy exploits to me, so you’re probably right about him flirting with you.”

“You think so?” Lúcio asks her, voice regaining it’s usual excited tone.

“Of course! Would I lie to you?”

Lúcio laughs then, “Nah, and even if you tried to,” he adds, giving her a light shove, “It wouldn’t work. Your poker face is _terrible!_ ”

Fareeha laughs, but does not argue the point, because Lúcio is not wrong; she has never been anything but honest, and herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with this I hit... 100k for this series! Which is a lot. 
> 
> And depending on a call I'm expecting Monday, it's possibly everything for this series (and me writing fic). RIP.
> 
> But if I update Tuesday then scratch that entirely and things will continue as planned. That's life. 
> 
> Hopefully you are not (unlike me) expecting big news within the next 48 hours, or if you are, the news is good.
> 
> Have a good one!
> 
> Rory <3


	9. 10/8/2017

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> long time no update....
> 
> anyway, i got an ask abt angela in a tichel, and i was immediately like "but she... isnt married?" so here is... a ficlet... about her getting engaged. aha

By the time Angela joins Overwatch, she has few enough memories of her family. What things she does remember are fuzzy with age, like half-remembered dreams, or sharp with pain, and the clarity that comes with a wound still unhealed.  She wishes she remembers more, or better, kinder things, but finds that she does not—cannot.  Her past is a strange, shifting thing, at some times the only comfort that keeps her going, and at others, it is fear of it which instead drives her.  She wishes she did not remember anything—then, the loss of her parents could hurt her no longer.  She wishes she could remember everything—not a moment of time with her family lost to her, she might understand better who her parents were, and who she is, in turn.  It frustrates her, the duality, and she feels she ought to choose just the one emotion, the one impulse, but her emotions have never been clear to her, and the finality of committing to feeling one thing frightens her.

And amidst the sea of uncertainty, one item, an anchor of sorts: a tichel once worn by her mother, what seems like a lifetime ago.  Somehow, the small piece of cloth is able to span the gap,  _past-present, good-bad, joy-pain_.  

This particular scarf is one of the few of her parents’ belongings which she still has, is the only one she was never parted from at any point.  

_Past._

When Angela asks, her mother explains to her the significance of the tichel, of her decision to follow tzniut upon marrying Yonathan, Angela’s father. She was not raised to do so, but he wears a yarmulke, and is more strictly observant, and while Anke might not think it strictly necessary—and so she tells Angela—compromise, she says, is important in relationships.  When a small thing can be done to make one’s spouse happy, it is best to simply do it.

_Present._

At seventeen, Angela has never been in a serious relationship, but she finds herself nonetheless contemplating her mother’s words—now that she is transitioning, what few memories she has of her mother’s discussion of Jewish womanhood will have to serve as a sort of guidance to her, with no other Jewish women present to turn to within her new, makeshift family at Overwatch.  Her mother gave her the tichel, and now for the first time she is able to consider what legacy came with it.

_Good._

Her mother tells her that she has come to love wearing the tichel, having a reminder upon her body constantly of her dedication to Yonathan.   Mindfulness, she tells her child, is an important thing.  It is good to remember, always, how lucky one is to have what one does, and to never take for granted one’s happiness.  Wearing a tichel, Anke is reminded every time she looks in the mirror how happy it is that her husband makes her.

_Bad._

Someday, her mother tells her, you will be someone’s husband, and you will make them just as happy.  The words are kind, and warm, and Angela knows that they ought to feel right, but the idea of being a  _husband_ , of being a  _man_ someday makes her skin crawl, feel too tight in a way she does not yet have words to express.  She does not say what she is thinking, at the time, that she would rather be the wife, finds herself unable to put into words the feelings she does not yet understand, but she desperately wishes she could.

_Joy._

What a young Angela did have words for, however, was a request: that he be allowed to try it on.  Laughing, her mother plucks the yarmulke from her small head and says that it could not hurt, just this once, to let her wear it.  It feels  _right_ , to do so, and although the word husband felt so,  _so_  wrong, this sticks in her mind  _wife wife wife._ In that moment, it feels like something possible, like to be a  _husband_ and therefore a  _man_ is not the inevitability she fears, is something she can choose not to be, in favor of this.

_Pain._

The tichel is stained now, in Angela’s hands, her own blood having spilled upon it.  When the Omnics attacked, she was injured, and her mother wrapped her arm with it to staunch the bleeding, because it was all that they had with them at the time, and so the tichel came to be with Angela, and came to be here.  Unlike her mother, the tichel is yet surviving, will stay with her for as long as she can keep it, a last gift from her mother, a final inheritance.

She could clean it, she knows, could wash the past from it, make it into a usable garment, but Angela is not ready, not yet, to relinquish any part of her past, not willing to risk the memory passing into oblivion, painful as it is. In this state, she will keep it, will not let go either the good or bad memories of her past until she finds a reason to move forwards from them, until she needs the tichel to serve as something other than a memory, other than a means to bridge the gap between past-present-maybe future.

Perhaps if she washed it she could wear it now, simply as a scarf, but to do so feels wrong.  It was meant to be more than simply a scarf, was meant to be a symbol of something greater, and Angela can wait, for now, until she has cause to use it, can wait, for now until there is something—someone—worth setting aside the past for.

* * *

Twenty two years later, Angela finally finds herself wearing the (now clean) tichel.

Fareeha finds her, too.

It is after she has just returned from synagogue, and normally Fareeha would still be in the gym, would be passing the time with Genji or Aleks or another of her friends, but today, Fareeha returns early, and sees Angela before she can change clothes.

“You’re wearing a tichel?” Fareeha asks her, and Angela freezes, halfway through opening her dresser drawer.

“Yes,” Angela answers, because there seems little point in denying it, and she hopes—although she recognizes that there is a slim chance of it being so—that Fareeha does not know what it is wearing a tichel means, exactly.

(What it means is this: Angela wants what her mother had, wants to be able to show publicly some evidence of the love held between she and Fareeha. What it means is this: she is beginning to hope that the future she once saw as only a possibility is instead something  _probable_.  What it means is this: she is willing, for Fareeha, to wash away some of her past in order to think about the future, to pass from  _then_ into  _now_ , to change and to compromise because Fareeha’s happiness makes her happy, and because they are better together than either of them ever could be apart.)

Fareeha frowns a bit in confusion, “But.. we aren’t married?”

Of  _course_  she would know that tichels are worn only by married women; outside of Angela’s quite narrow fields of expertise in medicine and nanotechnology, Fareeha is by far the better read of the two of them.  It ought not to surprise her at all, given Fareeha’s fondness of philosophy, that she would be well acquainted with the practices of religions outside of her own.

Still, Angela had hoped not to explain this.

(A part of her does not feel ready, not yet, to say what she is going to next—but then, perhaps she never would feel ready, without this push from Fareeha, and is that not why she wants this in the first place?)

“Well, we’re practically married, already, aren’t we?” she begins, “I mean we live together and we’ve started picking up each other’s habits and we love each other and—” and she is rambling, and she knows it, but she cannot help but feel a bit nervous about this whole thing, as if she has been caught doing something she should not, and in such situations her mouth moves faster than her brain does “—and I  _want_ to marry you, so I thought I ought to try it, you know, just see what it feels like, if this is something I’ll want to do if you say yes and—” and Fareeha has suddenly gone very still, and Angela thinks  _Oh no,_ because that is not a good sign.

“Fareeha?” Angela asks, voice tight with worry, “You aren’t angry, are you? I know it was presumptive I just—”

“You want to marry me?” Her voice is higher than usual, trembles slightly as she speaks.

Angela wrings her hands, because with it tied back like this she cannot tug at her hair, her nervous habit of choice, “Do you… not want to be married?” They have talked of a future together, have made plans—but now she thinks of them, they were only ever hypothetical things, were only  _if this ends_ , and she wonders if she has misread the situation.

(After all, they know that this will never end, that there will never be peace. Perhaps that impossible future was a comfort to Fareeha, for it was a freedom from true commitment—which is something Angela, once afraid to choose  _anything_ , preferring to remain in limbo, now wants, thanks to Fareeha— perhaps they are, both of them, more like their mothers than Angela thought.)

“I do!” Fareeha practically shouts it at her, before adding, more calmly, “This is all just a little overwhelming.”

“It is,” Angela agrees, and tries not to visibly sag in relief, “It would probably have gone better if I had proposed to you like I intended to.”

(Because  _damn it_ , Angela had been planning how to propose for well over a month now, has a folder specifically dedicated to  _the perfect proposal_ on her work computer, hidden away from where anyone else might stumble upon it.  A part of her was afraid that if she made any mistakes, Fareeha would say no, and they would forever have that moment hanging between them, an unspoken knowledge of what could have been, but was not—a fear which, it seems, was entirely unfounded, given that Fareeha is accepting her current, shoddy, indirect proposal.)

“You had plans?”

“Oh yes,” Angela replies, “I don’t have the ring yet, because I was going to use your semi-annual prosthetic maintenance to get your ring size, and I was going to ask your mother first, because it’s tradition, and I was going to lure you to where I planned to propose under the cover of ‘flight practice’ and—are you crying?”

“Sorry,” Fareeha sniffs, “I’m just—this is perfect.  It’s perfect already.  You don’t have to do anything at all because I didn’t think we would get to have this, that you would want it and I’m just… I’m so happy.”

“Come here,” Angela says, pulling Fareeha into a hug, swaying them both gently back and forth until Fareeha seems to have calmed, a little, and intending just to stay there, the two of them, one last moment of frozen time, of past-present before the future.

Until, of course, Fareeha breaks the silence, pulling Angela forwards with her into the unknown yet again, “You were going to ask my mother?”  There’s humor in her voice, now, and she’s speaking again at her usual register.

“Ah,” says Angela, “…Yes?”

“What would you have done if she said no!”

Angela does not need to consider the question for even an instant, “I’d have proposed anyway, of course.  She’s never let  _me_ stop  _her_ from doing anything.”

“Then why ask at all?”

There is entirely too much mirth in Fareeha’s voice for Angela’s liking, and she squirms out of their hug.  “Because, you ass, some of us have  _manners._ Manners which include not sneaking up on our girlfriends while nasty and sweaty and stinky from the gym, and then hugging them!”

“You asked  _me_ to hug  _you_ ,” Fareeha points out, “And you’re my fiancée now, not my girlfriend.”

(Fiancée, Angela thinks, fiancée, fiancée,  _fiancée._ It is not wife, but still it fills her with the same warmth and rightness from all those years before.)

“Besides,” Fareeha adds with a wink, “Now we both need a shower.”

“You’re incorrigible,” Angela says, but kisses her deeply nonetheless.

One day this, too, will only be a memory, but she knows already that it will be a happy one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fareeha is definitely a happy crier. i bet she gets misty eyed holding babies and kittens
> 
> also fareeha 100% succeeded in her quest to have shower sex, fwiw. 
> 
> anyway. who knows when i'll update this again. maybe never, maybe tomorrow. horribly inconsistent etc etc. but at least this is just a one shot collection and not properly multichapter, so its not like anyone is left hanging


	10. 19/08/2017

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW: Brief, non-graphic allusion to prior miscarriage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> someone asked me abt picnics... then i had an Idea abt a picnic... and had to go back and write something that fed into this idea
> 
> anyway basically have a fic abt... identity... and infants... which happens to be set at a picnic (in the second half)

There are times when, at “home” in Egypt, Fareeha feels out of place.  She thinks she ought not to, having been born there, and being half-Egyptian, but there is the problem—half.  It seems, no matter where Fareeha goes, that she is the only one of her kind; so it was in Canada, so it is now that she lives with her mother in Switzerland, and so it always will be, even here in Egypt.  There is nowhere Fareeha is fully from, no culture to which she _wholly_ belongs, and most of the time that does not bother her, the sense of unbelonging, of difference, but sometimes… sometimes it feels _too much._

But even if no one culture can claim Fareeha, one _family_ can. 

As much as Fareeha loves her father, at her heart she is an Amari, and when she is among her family members, she _knows_ who she is, and who it is that she is meant to be.

At this particular family gathering, a second cousin’s wedding, Fareeha finds herself standing off to the side holding one of her cousins’ wife’s newest baby, Niyyat, so that her mother can take a turn at dancing.  A few years before and Fareeha, now sixteen, might have been dancing, too, but she has just grown _again_ and feels awkward, still, in her body as it is at the moment.  A few years ago Fareeha might, also, have escaped the duty of holding a child, but now she is old enough to do so, and expected to be interested besides—and, to her surprise, she _is._ Little Niyyat is relatively quiet, and not too inclined to squirm, and makes sweet delighted noises when Fareeha wiggles her fingers near her face.

Of course, Niyyat’s case is certainly helped by the fact that, with the baby in her arms, Fareeha has a decent excuse to stand to the side, near to where several of the older men in her family are trading war stories. 

(Fareeha tries not to think about just how old they are—the lack of relatives close to her mother’s age is something she cannot ignore, not fully, but not something _wants_ to acknowledge.  She knows where they went, uncles, cousins, and an aunt or two, but history will only ever see her mother, war hero, savior to humanity, proud soldier, and so Fareeha tries to see that too, to think that their name means something, that a legacy of soldiers stretching back centuries guarantees some protection, some talent, some luck.  It is easier, that way, to say with pride that she is an _Amari_ , as it were some foregone conclusion, her destiny to become a soldier and serve with distinction.  She knows she might die, if she follows in her mother’s footsteps, and the gaps in her family tree can attest to it, but she knows, also, that this is what she was born into, and she must _believe,_ therefore, that she will live, like her mother.)

When the old men tell their tales, they speak of camaraderie, of purpose, of _belonging_ to something greater and doing something more.  Even in the worst of their stories, it is there, the kinship they felt with their fellow soldiers—even when they were suffering, when they thought they might die, never were they alone.

(Fareeha, stuck halfway between her mother and her father’s world, wants to be a part of something, in that way, wants to know above everything that she is _not alone,_ and that she never will be.)

Briefly, Fareeha’s eavesdropping is interrupted by Niyyat fussing slightly, wanting attention.  She is quieted soon enough by gentle bouncing, and when Fareeha presses a kiss to her forehead she smells the sweet scent which accompanies young infants.

While Fareeha was distracted, the conversation drifted from battles fought and uprisings at the turn of the century, to her mother.  It is Fareeha’s grandfather who speaks, speaks of his final, accident child, how she _had_ to be born, so that she could save all of them.  There is pride in his voice, and in the voices of all the other old men with whom he speaks, pride in a legacy, yes, in a country, in a _family_ , but moreso there is pride in the product of all of those things, pride in her mother herself. 

It is different, the way they speak of her, from how strangers do, when they stop her mother on the streets, or talk about her in one of Fareeha’s classes.  There is no awe, no _Captain Amari_ , only pride in _Little Ana_ and how far she has come.

(To Fareeha, Ana has never been little, even if mother now stands more than 10cm below her daughter.  She is large, larger than life, and the shadow she casts even greater.  But looking at her mother happily pinching the bride, stubborn bangs coming loose from her tied up hair, Fareeha can almost, _almost_ see the girl she once was.)

Fareeha feels it too, that pride in her mother, and with it _belonging_.  Perhaps she does not know what it is to belong wholly to one culture, to one people, to one tradition, but she does know what it is, here, to belong to a _family,_ one whose legacy she knows she will uphold.

She thinks to add to the conversation, to tell a story she heard from Reinhardt, but before she can, Niyyat’s mother is back for her child, thanking Fareeha and telling her that one day, when she is older, she will make a wonderful mother.

It is something Fareeha has thought about before, another way of upholding the family legacy, of continuing Amari tradition—but this is the first time that Fareeha finds herself thinking it is something she _wants._

 

* * *

 

Twenty years and many, many family gatherings later, Fareeha manages to convince Angela to take an afternoon off from researching so that they can go out to a more remote area on the edge of the base for a picnic lunch.  Although the years have made it _easier_ for her to get Angela away from work, it is still no simple task—and, for all that Fareeha might grumble about it, she appreciates this trait in her wife.  Dedicated as she is to her own job, she understands how important helping others is to Angela, how this is just another reflection of that caring attitude.

Of course, she would not mind if it were a _bit_ simpler to get Angela out of the door today, of all days.  Today is special, today Fareeha has plans, and she—unlike Angela— _can_ keep her plans a secret long enough to make them a surprise.

Or, normally she can.

Today, it is not so easy.  Already, she has held her tongue for a month, waited until she was certain, until she could sneak off base to confirm it (until she felt sure that this time would not be like the last).

Carefully, she unloads the picnic basket, pulls out baby carrots, small sandwiches, applesauce, and water bottles, leaving one final box inside.

Angela wrinkles her nose as she holds up a sandwich, “Is this… peanut butter and jam?”  Fareeha tries not to laugh at the face her wife is making as she says it, as if it _offends_ her.  “And why,” she asks, “Is it in triangles?  With no crusts?”

“It’s peanut butter and _jelly_ , and it’s better this way.  Trust me.”

Her wife looks despairingly at the sandwich, then at the carrots, and the applesauce.  “Please tell me there is something better in the last box.”

“ _Much_ better,” she assures Angela, before batting away the hand that is already reaching for the box, “But it’s for _after_ we’ve eaten this.”

Angela bites her lip, glances at the box, “If it’s chocolate it could melt, you know.  Best to just eat it now and—”

“I didn’t get you chocolates, but I promise this is nicer.”

“I doubt that,” Angela replies, but her voice is teasing, even as she _very reluctantly_ takes a bite of the peanut butter and jelly.

They tease their way through sandwiches—Angela complains of sticky fingers, and Fareeha says she will grow used to them—laugh as they try to see who can bite into a baby carrot with the loudest _crack!_ , and bicker over whether applesauce is a condiment, as Angela asserts, or a food all its own.  Already, it is perfect, just the two of them.

But things could always be _better_ , and there is yet one better thing left in the basket.

“Alright,” Fareeha says, when at last they are done, “You can open the box now.” 

Naturally inquisitive as her wife is, Fareeha is certain Angela has been thinking about it the entire time they were eating, and her suspicions are confirmed when Angela all but snatches the box from their basket.

She opens it hastily, and Fareeha watches the emotions play out on her face.  _Confusion, disbelief, wonder._ Then the paper is dropped, floating gently down to Angela’s lap as she reaches out one hand towards Fareeha.

Angela’s hands never tremble, must always be steady and sure, but now, as fingers ghost over her abdomen, Fareeha could swear she feels her wife’s hand shaking, ever so slightly.

“Is this… are you certain?”

“Well,” Fareeha says, smiling so hard it nearly hurts, “You’re the doctor, you just saw my hCG levels, you tell me.”

“You’re pregnant,” Angela says, as if she cannot quite believe it yet, and then, laughing, repeats herself, “You’re pregnant!”

Before Fareeha can say _Yes,_ or _I am,_ or _We’re having a baby,_ or _It will work this time, I promise,_ or, _We’re going to be mothers, finally_ , Angela has pulled her into a kiss, and, truthfully, there is nothing else to be said.

It is perfect, just the three of them.

Until, of course, Angela pulls back and swats her on the shoulder, “I can’t believe you saw someone else about this!”

“I wanted to surprise you!” Fareeha insists, “I couldn’t do that if you did the test.”

(She does not say _I did not want it to be like last time,_ does not say _I did not want to face you and feel I had failed—again,_ does not say _I did not want to hear you crying in the bathroom at night when you thought I was asleep._ Angela knows all of those things already, and now is not the time for such thoughts—she is finally, finally, _finally_ pregnant, and feels certain, this time, that she will stay that way.  Now is a time for joy.)

 A hum, and Angela seems to accept that answer, moves so that she is curled under Fareeha’s shoulder, one hand resting, again, on her stomach.  Then, abruptly, as if it is just occurring to her, says “We didn’t try this month.”

“No,” Fareeha agrees, “We didn’t.”

“How long have you been planning this picnic?  I woudn’t have thought it took that much thought, given the menu.”

“First of all,” Fareeha says, “The menu has a purpose.  Small, baby sandwiches like you might feed a child, _baby_ carrots, applesauce—which is a baby _food_ , not a condiment.  That involved _some_ planning!  And in any case, I didn’t know _for certain_ for quite some time.”

“ _Fareeha,_ ” Angela says, “You know I appreciate exactness, but we both know tests would have told you two months ago, and you said you weren’t pregnant, then.”

She tries to shrug, but their position makes it difficult, instead she settles for saying, “There was… light spotting.  I _thought_ I was menstruating.   By the time I realized that was all it was, we were already headed out to Eichenwalde—I didn’t want to worry you.”

(She had not wanted, either, to give voice to it, because that would be to make it real—if she never had their child, she could never lose it.)

“Then,” Fareeha says, “I wasn’t having any symptoms,” ( _not like last time_ ), “So I just kind of… brushed it off.  I didn’t want to get everyone’s hopes up.”

(Everyone.  She, Angela, her mother, Jesse.  The past year has been difficult for all of them in different ways.)

“Oh, Fareeha,” Angela says, voice almost painfully tender and gentle, “You know we agreed to do this _together_.  You don’t have to worry about—about…”

“I know,” says Fareeha, and she does, but it was better for her, then, to process it alone, was what she needed, but now she is ready to share this, ready to be a family, “I know.  And now,” she adds, “We don’t need to worry.  We’re having a baby!”

It is the first time she says it aloud, and it feels so perfect, so _right_ , and she feels warm, suddenly, like the warmth of the sun on her skin back in Egypt.  _Here_ is where she belongs.  Here, carrying on her family legacy, with her wife at her side. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fareeha totally thought her whole baby picnic theme was incredible, and an obvious hint. angela TOTALLY missed it.
> 
> okay i finished this fic like five days ago so sorry to the person who sent me this anon for answering so slowly ;___; im back @ work & in school now after a while off due to illness so i have less time to write and edit things. 
> 
> but write & edit i did!
> 
> go me lmao

**Author's Note:**

> Fic title from 1D's Little Things. 
> 
> Have a prompt? I'm [here](http://agenthill.tumblr.com/ask).


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